The Perfect Crime
by Theta Waves
Summary: John thinks himself something of a strategist, and after meticulous planning, prepares to unleash the attack of the century upon an unsuspecting Rose Lalonde. Nothing will get in the way of him and his goal, not even Rose's charms. But as it is said, "All is fair in love and war" A work of a fan, that claims no resposibility for Homestuck, or any work of Andrew Hussie


The Perfect Crime

By:

Theta Waves

The determined smirk that occupied the pale, dorky face displayed one simple sentiment, direct, but by its nature, looked merely gooberish and endearing rather than threatening.

_Easy prey,_ is the most apt way to describe the expression, and was exactly what John Egbert whispered through his own head. From his dual purpose war room/vantage point that was the-corner-of-wall-where-the-hallway-met-the-livin g-room the boy with perpetually messy black hair, who controlled winds, who saves planets, plotted his assault.

It would be cold, calculating. The poor fool would never stand a chance.

This was a falsehood on both accounts, but at the same time was the reason he must now strike ferociously; his target was the beautiful, infallible Rose Lalonde.

Phase One.

Using a mastery of personal aviation, which yes, if anyone asked, is as ecstatic as it sounds, the Heir of Breath silently lifts himself from the floor. Silence and surprise will be his allies: Too many amateurs have been caught on the approach. But between his socks and the carpet, he could have been just as quiet walking. He leans forward into the position of a doggy-paddle in the air. Neigh, this is more threatening, more aggressive; it is a panther-paddle.

Phase Two.

Fluently and silently, the air currents carry John across the No-Man's land of the stretch of eleven feet between the hall and the back of the couch. Inch by precious inch, the air carries him like a dutiful mother carrying her sleeping child to bed, because what four year-old can you expect to stay awake for the entirety of "The Indian In The Cupboard?"

So focused on his mission was he that he doesn't even notice the usual clutter that his their two-person apartment. Chairs are rarely pushed in (what's the use?), a bottle of cranberry juice sits on the counter (you both prefer it that way, or you would if you liked cranberry)- Between John's magician's equipment lying around, and Rose's ever-growing mounds of books and coffee mugs, the apartment could be the most, or least depending on your point of view, pretentious coffee shop known to man.

_Focus, John, focus._

Ah, he's reached it; the optimal launching point for the execution of Phase Three. He rests, rather seriously, on the air just behind the soft-blonde head of hair that displays itself regally over the back of the couch. With an adjustment of altitude you are just above and to the left of her. A fine view point it is, he laments. Hair the color of sun faded cotton, slightly yellowed and infinitely finer to the touch, as he knew from experience. A delicate ear broke the surface, rather guilty of being small and graceful and perfectly formed, as well as perfectly pale. It supported the purple hair band that was simply essential to her ensemble.

From under the tapered ends of her flawlessly short-cropped hair, her neck made a smooth curve into her shoulder, making a pleasant slope of silken skin. This ended, regrettably in John's eyes, with the edge of her orange god-tier robes. On days like this, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, John and Rose made a habit of wearing their god-tier clothes. Yes, they were designed for universe-saving, but _hell _if they weren't as comfortable as all get-out. Her milky white, hairless cheek curved gently over her petite set of cheek-bones in a lovely way to her lips painted black, the start of which barely visible; or it may have been his imagination, for her eyes were not yet visible at this point; Which, on the whole, is fortunate, because had they been, he might never have finished describing them.

_All right, Johnny boy,_ he chastised himself, _now's not the time for getting caught up in deceptive feminine wiles, no matter how wily._

Phase Three…

John inched his way closer, ever closer, at a pace imperceptible, until he rested just beside her ear. Using the windy thing he could direct his breath away to avoid being heard or felt. From here now, he could see her long eyelashes, and painted lips parted slightly, as well as the book she had in her lap. He could read along if he liked: _"He hated himself for what he construed to be his own cowardice. He had intended to take a much stronger stand with Colonel Cathcart on the matter of the sixty mission, to speak out…" BLUUHHH. How can Rose stand this junk?_

_No, John, focus, focus now._

John prepared for his devastating final blow. The H-bomb of tactics of a pre-emptive swan dive dive-bomb strike. From complete silence he would launch it, and in silence it would end… but from the same silence came the soft, distracting, _enchanting_, sound of female breath, and the occasional sigh directed at her book.

_Boy, who knew petulance could be so cute- no, John, stick to the plan and focus._

_All right, Lalonde, prepare yourself for the final blow, _he thinks, really to steele his own nerves more than anything, _it ends here, no matter how much you beg or how nice your hair smells- DAMN IT, JOHN, STOP BEING SEDUCED BY THE TARGET! She's a clever one all right…_

He plots the exact point of impact, calculates vectors and ballistics and such. The chaplain blesses the troops with traditional rites before they go into battle.

_It'll be over before you even know it, Lalonde._

He darts his head sideways, pressing his eyeglasses into her temple as he lays a big wet smacking kiss on the cheek. The sheer force presses her head sidelong, she being still too surprised to react.

_Mission success! The pucker pilot delivers its payload and ground zero is __devastated!__ The Tsar Bomb's got nothing on this!_

After taking damage report, Rose turns her head, fazed but not looking it, to John, doing her best to look bored and unsurprised. John can only look at her with pride in his little attack, and adoration plastered across his face.

"What," She wrinkles her nose, shuts the book, and asks, with faux indignation, "was _that_ all about, hmm?"

John had prepared a victory speech, but after seeing her wrinkle her nose in the most adorable way possible, and hearing that voice, his mind really got away from him. After a moment of blushing and stunned silence on his part, he replied levelly.

"I'll now be considering your unconditional surrender."

"Oh, John," She begins pityingly, " you should know by now," she adds a sly smirk, "that a Lalonde _never_ surrenders."

"…Erm..."

"Yes?"

"Well, you see.. ah..." John, as one might see, was at atraditional loss for words."Vive la resistance?"


End file.
